


Sam Chronicles, The

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s02e20 The Fall's Gonna Kill You
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-16
Updated: 2006-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-15 21:05:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14797946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: "By day, they churn butter. . ."





	Sam Chronicles, The

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

Disclaimer: Not mine. I admit it.  
Spoilers: ITSOTG, TFGKY.  
Summary: "By day, they churn butter..."  
Props to the x-files, Robyn and Raquel. I miss you  
guys.  
Archive: Please ask first. 

The Sam Chronicles

Sam was fingering the keys on his laptop when Toby  
came in, and slammed the cover shut as soon as the  
screen was in his sight. 

"What are you doing?" the Communications Director  
asked. 

"The question is, what am I not doing," replied the  
young man numbly, staring into space. 

"Okay." 

"I'm not helping you write the apology." 

Toby eased into a chair under the snake-woven poster  
with the words "Don't Tread On Me" and sighed. 

"The reason you're not helping me wouldn't be due to  
the fact that, say, you want to write it entirely on  
your own, would it?" 

"No," Sam said earnestly. "I don't want to have  
anything to do with it." 

"It's a little too late for that statement." 

"It might be; but when was I given other options?" 

Toby did not answer. Instead, he tapped on the laptop  
cover. 

"What are you doing, then?" 

"Nothing." Sam moved the laptop aside, but quickly  
changed his mind and opened it again. "None of this  
is fair, and not only the President should take it  
personally. I should, too." 

"Why?" 

Sam stood up, his face an statement of uncertainty and  
grief. 

"There's this thing..." he began. "I was kind of  
hoping to... um, well. Never mind." 

"Sam, I know you're angry and upset and you don't know  
which feeling comes first. Are you worried about the  
President?" 

"Toby, I'm not a two-year-old. I understand the  
consequences of multiple sclerosis and of course I'm  
worried about his wellbeing. We all are. But...  
there's something else." 

"Are you going to spill it? I'm getting older by the  
minute here!" 

"Okay. I'm kind of writing this book." 

"Book?" Toby repeated, startled. "That's great. An  
auto-biography?" 

"Well... no." 

"'Cause I could see how an auto-biography would be  
seriously affected by these circumstances and I gotta  
tell you to stop writing it for a while." 

"I understand. It's more of an action-adventure  
series. You know, the kind I've always wanted to  
write. It's just that..." Sam paced his office,  
smallish enough for Toby to follow him by visibly  
turning his head. "The main hero, his name is Stan  
Sorrensen, is an FBI agent and he goes around saving  
people � you see, I've been mirroring him after  
myself." 

"You don't say," said Toby, repressing a sarcastic  
smile. 

Sam didn't catch the change in his friend's voice. He  
was too entangled into telling his story. 

"It's almost finished now and I know a guy who said  
he'd put it in print for me, but now that the  
President is ill I don't think I can ever finish it.   
Shallow as this is, it saddens me. Everyone I know  
has been incorporated into the story as a character �  
of course, the names have been changed and the setting  
is entirely dissimilar, but I'm afraid I might slip up  
somewhere and leak the story." 

"Sam, the story will be leaked no matter what you do." 

"Yes, but "The Stan Chronicles" will lead people to  
believe I knew it before anyone else and purposely  
withheld the information. 

Toby coughed. "'The Stan Chronicles?'" he asked. 

Sam blushed. 

"It's a tentative name," he said shyly. 

"Why don't you read some to me, and I will tell you  
whether or not it's a dangerous leak." 

*** 

The sky exploded with gunfire. Stan dropped to his  
knees behind the bullet-sketched BMW, shocked more  
than frightened, and pulled his colleague Clarissa  
close as she screamed in panic... 

*** 

"I'm sorry. Clarissa?" interrupted Toby immediately. 

"Yeah. Pretty inventive, no? And it's a nice name." 

"Well, it starts with a 'Cla' and if you ask me,  
that's as transparent as a slice of Swiss." 

"It really isn't. You'll see, no one will be able to  
tell." 

*** 

...as she screamed in panic. She fell down; he saw  
her head hit the ground and reached to hold her up,  
his fingers tousled in her necklace. As she hung  
limply in his arms, he heard the thin golden thread  
break in two in his hand and stuffed it into his  
pocket before   
she came to.  
"You all right?" he asked hoarsely when she moaned,  
clutching her hurting wrist.  
"I think so... what happened?"  
"We were attacked. Stay here, call for backup. I'll  
go check on the others."  
Stan Sorrensen had been fired on before; in his line  
of duty, any and all reservations were quickly  
abandoned, as the situation usually left no time for  
them. Those who adapted, survived. He never deemed  
himself lucky, just good enough to help those unused  
to such harsh   
conditions.  
As he made sure Clarissa was safe behind the  
bulletproof car door, he heard a faint scream.  
"I need a doctor!"  
The voice belonged to Tony, his work partner. Stan  
rushed in his direction... 

*** 

"Well, I'm flattered." Toby smiled slightly as Sam  
looked at him above his laptop screen. 

"Really?" 

"Yes. It's not every day I get immortalized in print  
as a hero's colleague." 

"Actually..." 

"Yeah, scratch that." 

**** 

Agent Sorrensen tore into the thick green of the  
jungle with rejuvenated vigor. The thought of his  
friends in danger made him restless and at the same  
time gave acute power to all his senses. He could  
hear every noise in the visible perimeter around him,  
and   
quickly spotted clues that lead him deeper into the  
perilous maze of curvy branches, where a poisonous  
snake or a carnivorous beast could strike at any time.  
He feared not these obstacles. The people he cared  
about were hidden from him in this forsaken place, and  
his duty was to see them returned safely to the Bureau  
and their families.  
The Bureau comes first, though. There is an  
assignment they are all on and it must be carried out.  
He came across a small opening in the forest, where  
the grass was recently trodden and a few boughs seemed  
out of place. A piece of hastily torn cloth hung low  
above his head, and he inspected it carefully. No  
doubt that it belonged to Jonah, his best friend...  
that the tiny drops of blood staining it belonged to  
him as well.  
Finally, at a distance, he saw them. Two darkly  
dressed commandos stood above his best friend, spread  
on the ground with a bloody wound in his chest, his  
partner pressing on it as hard as he could. Stan   
reached for his gun, but found the holster empty.   
Without a second thought, he ran forward and with a  
swift movement knocked out one of the enemies. The  
other threw up his gun and let out a series of   
shots, but Stan kicked him with his foot and the  
bullets ricocheted off a tree stem.  
The standing commando turned around and swung his  
rifle into Sorrensen's stomach. Pain shot through his  
body as he sprawled on the grass next to his unmoving  
friend. Tony screamed, urging him to be careful, and  
he got hold of the soldier's foot and pulled with all   
his strength. The man fell on top of him, then rolled  
over and grew still. He hit his head on his own gun.  
Stan stood up.  
"Keep pressing on the wound," he threw at Tony, then  
called out softly to his friend, still unconscious.   
"Jonah, I'm here!"  
Back at the foot of the jungle, Clarissa was waiting  
with a med-team... 

*** 

"What do you think so far?" asked Sam, pausing to  
catch his breath. Toby leaned back in his chair. 

"I like it," he said at length. "I don't like  
remembering these things, but I have to admit they  
were good grist for the writer's mill." 

"That's for sure," Sam sighed. 

"I don't see how this would affect our current status,  
though." 

"It doesn't. I was reading from the beginning of the  
book. In a few more chapters..." 

"Get to the point, Sam. The apology isn't writing  
itself." 

*** 

Stan leaned on the back of his chair, stunned by the  
horrible news. He hadn't expected this to happen, and  
years of training and experience in the field could  
not prepare him for what he just heard.   
His department manager, his mentor and friend, had  
been incurably ill for as long as Stan worked under  
his command at the Bureau. No one knew until very  
recently, when fear that the disease could affect his  
work overcame his need for privacy. It was, as he  
explained, a lie for the better; but Stan was so hurt  
and disheartened he could hardly breathe.   
Several people, it turned out, knew after all.   
Gerald, the Assistant Director, had known for two... 

*** 

"Is this funny?" 

"No, of course not. Sorry. I'm sorry." Toby  
continued laughing. 

"Because I don't see how this is funny at all." 

"You would if you were Lord Marbury." 

"I'm talking about the big picture here." 

*** 

... for two years, and Stan was taken aback to find  
out his own partner saw no mystery in his finding as  
well. He stood up and held on to the wall as a sudden  
dizziness overcame him. The last time he lost control  
like that was when the news of his father's murder   
came. He vowed that Monica, the woman who took a  
father away from his family, would pay dearly for it,  
but this time vengeance was not his option and help  
was not his to give. He was weak, alone, watching a  
person he loved shatter to pieces without any hope of   
extending a friendly hand... 

*** 

"Stop reading, Sam." 

"Is it bad? Should I change the wording?" 

"You're writing a journal. I shouldn't be the one to  
tell you how to do it." 

Sam shook his head stubbornly, beads of cold sweat  
glittering on it. 

"This isn't a journal. It's just something I have fun  
with in my free time. I want to see it published and  
I need your advice..." 

"My advice is to put it away. This is hurting you and  
it will hurt those included in the story." 

"That's ridiculous. How is it hurting me?" 

"Have you spoken to anyone about what happened at  
Rosslyn?" 

"We all have." 

"But that was concerning Josh. I'm saying, have you  
spoken to anyone about you?" 

"I didn't have to. I'm fine." 

"All evidence to the contrary," said Toby, and Sam  
lowered his eyes. 

"Writing it down won't make you feel better. You need  
to tell someone." 

"I just told you," said Sam. Toby sighed deeply and  
reached to pat the young man on the shoulder. 

"It's a good book and I would be proud to own a copy.   
But it's not a solution. You need to talk with  
someone, and not me. Speak to the President again.   
Speak to Dr. Keyworth. You have to put this behind   
you." 

"Then I won't be able to write this anymore," replied  
the young man sadly. "There won't be an adventure to  
describe." 

"That isn't a good enough reason. Besides, when has  
your life not been an adventure?" 

Sam smiled. 

"Batman and Robin, eh?" he recalled. 

"Don't even think about it." 

"The rubber suits caused quite a commotion, if memory  
serves." 

"Stop." 

"Plus, you know, women dig capes and long cars." 

"I'm going now. I have things to do and daydreaming  
isn't one of them." 

"Need help?" suddenly offered Sam, and Toby stopped  
just outside his door. 

"Sure," he said slowly. "Sure, Sam. Come on down to  
the mess with me." 

"I'll just grab my utility belt!" shouted Sam, but  
Toby was already outside.   
*********** 

  


End file.
